


With a cup of tea Wreathed in Steam

by Flightlesskiwi



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 08:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17362958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flightlesskiwi/pseuds/Flightlesskiwi
Summary: 'Shaun is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He can’t be blamed for it, the biggest discovery of his life ended in a cruelultimatum and -in a roundabout manner- the end of the world.So he’s often defensive and always suspicious but as the guiding compass of his life so far it’s never steered him wrong.That is until there’s a fresh cup of tea nesting at his elbow and he mutters a distracted thank you, only to look up and see Desmond’s shocked face staring down at him and find something soft settling into place behind his rib cage where his heart should be.'Shaun feels like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, Desmond does his best to lift that weight.





	With a cup of tea Wreathed in Steam

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been sitting in the depths of my computer since May. But -for some crazy reason- I decided that my return to fic writing should be for a rare pair from 2009, for a game that I’ve not even finished yet, so here it is. 
> 
> BIG BIG thanks to boxofrogs, beloved sibling, beta reader and cheerleader who has been pestering me to write these two since -what feels like- time immemorial. This fic wouldn’t have seen the light of day without you. Enjoy! 
> 
> The title is from Kindness by Sylvia Plath (because I'm a poetry nerd).

Shaun feels like he’s got a thousand piece puzzle that he’s trying to solve without the corners. Late nights run into early mornings and between writing database entries and helping the other assassin teams Shaun is sure the shape of his arse must be ingrained into his chair. The words are blurring before his eyes, moonlight casting shadows across the room when Desmond appears at his elbow. Successfully scaring the _shit_ out of him.

 

“ _Jesus Christ_!” He yelps, catching a mug of stagnant tea before it can topple off the desk. “I’m going to get you a bell.”

The mug slips in his hand and Desmond reaches out to take it from him, chuckling under his breath. Everything about him seems sharper in the shadows of the window, high contrast like a black and white noire. Dangerous edges and sharp eyes. Shaun lets loose a couple more profanities as he snatches the cup from Desmond’s hand, giving himself a couple minutes to find composure.

“What do you want Desmond?” He asks, reaching up beneath his glasses to rub the sleep from his eyes. Desmond shrugs,

“Couldn’t sleep.” He says, flipping through some of the papers on Shaun’s desk.

“And this involves me _how_ exactly?” Shaun turns back to his computer and pretends the words aren’t blurring before his eyes, even though turning his back on Desmond these days feels a bit like turning your back on a tiger. Desmond stares at Shaun silently, eyes hot on the side of his face.

“You’re awake, I’m awake. Why not keep each other company.” He says, using Shaun’s refusal to look at him as an excuse to hop up onto the desk.

“Because unlike you _Desmond_ I actually have work to do!” Shaun returns, going back to the file on his screen and electing to ignore the would-be assassin’s derisive snort as he makes himself at home on his desk. Another database entry on a church. Italians and their bloody churches.

 

They sit in silence after that, broken only by Shaun’s continuous typing and Desmond’s occasional question. It’s… It’s actually quite nice. Things between the two of them have always been tense, Shaun’s inferiority complex, lack of patience for others and need to question everything has never molded well with Desmond’s curiosity and animosity. Adding Lucy and Rebeca to the mix just makes things worse, but in the dark of night, all the unspoken things between them seem content to remain that way, crushed under the weight of the night sky. Something about it smooths away all the rough parts, letting the two of them glide smoothly by each other. Content to sit in each other’s presence.

 

Shaun can feel his head starting to loll to the side, his eyes keep closing between words but he really doesn’t want to have to do this entry tomorrow.

“-Shaun, Shaun?” Desmond is peering over at him looking concerned. This is evidently not the first time he’s said Shaun’s name.

“Hmhm?” Desmond smiles at Shaun’s reply and places and hand on his shoulder.

“I think it’s time for bed.” Shaun doesn’t really have the energy to argue so he tips himself up out of the chair and lets Desmond haul him upwards.

 

They stumble over to Desmond’s bed and Shaun, who at this point barely has the wherewithal to stay upright, tumbles over as soon as Desmond lets him go. In the weak light of the moon, Shaun reaches out from where he’s lying to catch Desmond’s wrist.

“Thanks, Des.” He says then he drifts off into sleep.  


 

~

 

Here’s the thing. Shaun’s not here because of some vital link to the past and his fated role in saving the world. He’s certainly not here because of his sparkling personality. He’s here because he’s too smart and he’s too bloody stupid to keep his mouth shut about it. He’s here because he’s a bundle of paranoia, intellect and other unfortunately common pieces of British neurosis that mean that when Desmond saves him fresh pastries from Rebecca's covert shopping run he can’t even muster up a thank you through the surprise and suspicion.

 

It means that when Desmond starts bringing him fresh cups of tea in the evenings when Shaun’s found a particularly interesting piece of historical trivia all Shaun can do is ask him what he’s after. It means that when Desmond brings him little pieces of history from the grounds of Monteriggioni, Shaun holds them like they’ll break with just a breath and hoards them away in the privacy of his room.

 

It _means_ that in the thick of night when it’s so much easier to hide in the shadows and whisper the truths that ache too much in daylight, Desmond hauls Shaun off to bed a second time and Shaun whispers “you can’t possibly _like me_ this much.”  into the shoulder he’s leaning against. It means Shaun is sure Desmond heard it -felt his body tense at the words- even though he didn’t respond.

 

It means that when they sit in silence during late nights and watch the sunrise in the early morning Shaun finds himself choking on all the things he wants to say but can’t put into words.

 

Shaun is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He can’t be blamed for it, the biggest discovery of his life ended in a cruel

ultimatum and -in a roundabout manner- the end of the world. So he’s often defensive and _always_ suspicious but as the guiding compass of his life so far it’s never steered him wrong.

 

That is until there’s a fresh cup of tea nesting at his elbow and he mutters a distracted thank you, only to look up and see Desmond’s shocked face staring down at him and find something soft settling into place behind his rib cage where his heart should be.

 

It’s around then that he realizes  _he’s fucked_.

 

~

 

Desmond says, “Go out with me,” and Shaun spits coffee all over his monitor. When he finishes that thought with “for a walk?” Shaun spends the time it takes to get some paper towels and clean up the mess cursing himself  -and his stupid pale complexion that means the heat in his face it could probably be visible to the Templars’ bloody satellite- and just cursing in general in the hope that it will somehow soothe the war of relief and disappointment beating in his chest.

 

How can he deny Desmond anything?

 

~

 

They stay up on the roofs as the sun splits over the horizon. Shaun feels caught there, stuck between night and the rising day. Yesterday and tomorrow. He imagines this is how Desmond must feel, as present in the past as he is in the future.

  


“Why are you being nice to me Desmond?” He asks, it comes out a lot more accusatory than he means it to, but that’s the story of his life. Always cutting off the hand that feeds him. Desmond doesn’t seem offended though, instead, his face falls into a pensive frown and he picks at the terracotta roof tiles.

“I don’t know. Guess I figured we’re all trying to save the world, might as well cut you some slack. You’re the one organizing half this shit anyway.” Shaun wants to protest, because most of the time he only offers pointed advice, _heavily pointed_ _advice_. It’s Lucy who makes the end decision and she always makes the right call, even if it‘s not listening to Shaun. He trusts that, trusts Lucy enough not to question it when she says something with that hard-edged tone of finality. But Desmond just silences him with a look. And Shaun has two distinct thoughts _how did this happen?_ and _what the fuck is going on?_ Something like foreboding curls up in the pit of his stomach, only it feels less like an impending knife in the back and more like the smell of the air before rain, the world breathing in in silent anticipation of a downpour.

 

Desmond chuckles but it’s weak, half-hearted misdirection to distract from all the emotional turmoil behind his eyes. “Then at some point, it became less about the world and more about just _you_.” He says, turning to look at Shaun like he’s not just shattered the sky and made the clouds burst over his head.

 

Shaun looks out at the sunset and the freckle of bright stars that are beginning to chase it across the sky. He looks at Desmond, whose expression is achingly open, eyes glassy and so bloody kind, looking at Shaun like there’s nothing more he wants to do than sit here in the cold forever. Desmond whose feelings Shaun had mistaken for a prank or a joke or some kind of debt to be repaid. He thinks about his own scathing words and Desmond’s witty responses, he thinks about mugs of tea and late nights and the taste of early morning _Cornetti_. Then Shaun thinks _fuck it_ and he kisses Desmond Miles on his stupid, beautiful scarred lips.

 

It’s awkward, Shaun’s glasses push into the bridge of his nose and all he’s done is shove his closed mouth onto Desmond’s who tenses up under him. Shaun draws back as if he’s been burned only for Desmond to almost headbutting him in his attempt to move back in.

 

They work it out -in that strange way they have now- dancing around each other, testing boundaries. Feeling for edges and then settling in, like it's been that way all along. Desmond’s hand comes up to caress his jaw, running a teasing line along the stubbled edge. Shaun _melts_ , folds into the kiss like this is their last moment on Earth. Like he’s starving and Desmond is the best thing he’s ever tasted -because _he is_ \- and all the while he thinks _I’m sorry I messed this up, I’m sorry I’m so difficult sometimes, I’m sorry I made you wait,  I’m sorry it took so long_.

 

Desmond pulls back and smiles, it’s not like his other smiles. Not mocking or sarcastic, not dangerous with that little volatile twist to the end. It’s just  _happy_ , simple and stupid and beautiful and complex. Shaun wants to document that smile, wants to study it for as long as he’s allowed.

“Shaun,” Desmond says, with that stupid dopey smile.

“Hmhmm.” Shaun is sure he looks similarly -if not more- ridiculous as he leans into Desmond’s hand.

“Stop fucking thinking so hard.” And then Desmond’s kissing him again and for the first time in his life, Shaun thinks nothing at all.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Cornetti/cornetto are Italian breakfast pastries similar to croissants, they are usually filled with jam, cream or custard.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please feel free to comment <3


End file.
